Cinderella: A Modern Tale
by phoenix featherwill
Summary: A modern spin on a classic tale, Cinderella, juggles her dreams of Hollywood stardom & her reality as a Beverly Hills maid. With her trusty mop at hand, she is determined to conquer Tinseltown, meet Prince Charming & live happily ever after.
1. The Toilet, the Witch & the Wardrobe

Chapter 1 :

_**The Toilet, the Mistress & the Wardrobe**_

Once upon a time, in a far, far away land known as Beverly Hills, lived a twenty-some year-old girl named Cinderella, who earned a living as…well, a maid. While there was certainly nothing disrespectful about this profession (it certainly beat stripping at a night club or gyrating around a pole), there was something distinctly morbid about scrubbing the thousand-dollar Royal Doulton toilets of hoity-toity celebrities, and even worse, self-aggrandizing heiresses. Indeed, while some preferred the term 'housekeeper' or 'maintenance crew', Cinderella chose the simplest, bluntest term that described her achievements, and this took shape in the monosyllabic word, 'maid'.

It came as to no surprise that she spent her days dusting and scrubbing and washing away—after all, her mother struggled as an illegal immigrant, working off a fake passport and identity. Her father, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. J.J. Cummings, a self-made billionaire notorious for his womanizing ways, had sprinkled the seeds that would one day blossom into the fruit of his loins. This happened one lazy afternoon, when he strolled into his wife's enormous walk-in-closet and smacked a bottom that did not belong to dear Mrs. Cummings. This uncouth, barbaric behaviour startled the bottom's owner, a housekeeper posing as U.S. resident, Marietta Consuelo. Her name, however, was not a subject brought into question, as J.J. Cummings only delighted in his discovery of a new mistress. Scum ball though he was, one thing that all his mistresses, past and present, would reluctantly admit, is his undeniable magnetism, unbeatable charm and yes, unparalleled bank account. Unplanned though the affair, Marietta was an ordinary woman without unique beauty, wit or grace that distinguished her from any other. Perhaps it was by luck or, some may say, misfortune that she'd stooped to align Mrs. Cummings' extraordinary collection of Jimmy Choos one minute, only to assume the same crude position with Mr. Cummings the next.

Fear of being deported, fear of losing her minimum-wage job, fear of refusing a powerful man, she sold out her romantic ideals for a mere few thousand dollars over the course of J.J. Cummings' Latina fever. Nevertheless, juicy tabloids hit the stands, reporting headlines of the hotshot Hollywood producer's wife expecting a visit from the stork. This was news to Marietta, who proceeded to shatter an expensive jar of Beluga caviar on the Cummings' Italian marble floor. Short-lived though the affair had been, a vivid pink line on a stick told Marietta Consuelo that she'd soon be expecting her own bundle of joy. Floods of tears overwhelmed the housekeeper, as the prospect of raising a child as a single, now unemployed mother, seemed a likely plotline for her favourite telenovela.

You may wonder how this is all relevant to dear Cinderella, and it is in fact, the irony of her history that initiated a series of events to transpire as a catalyst towards the course of her destiny. Indeed, young Cinderella had grown up in the outskirts of Los Angeles, reading the battered copies of fairy-tale stories borrowed from her school library, imagining her life to someday magically evolve into something extraordinary. She waited each night for her fairy godmother to appear, for little mice to weave her ball gown for the prom, for a Prince Charming to sweep her mother off her feet. Instead, the unimaginable occurred.

At age seventeen, just three days short of her public school graduation, Cinderella received a phone call from the police that informed her of her mother's tragic death. In a common hit-and-run incident, Marietta Consuelo suffered a concussion and consequent brain hemorrhage—the result of an heiress' second D.U.I. Social workers offered therapy and counseling, even foster homes, though the first two seemed grossly expensive options and the latter too ridiculous for a college-bound girl her age. Cinderella, however, was far from a brilliant academic student, withdrawing to herself in classes that involved math and computations, relishing instead in the imagination of English Lit and the consolation of whispering the popular girl's lines in every school play from the very back of the auditorium.

So it came to be that on her twenty-first birthday, she kneeled on all fours, scrubbing vomit off a certain socialite's _delicates_ by (gloved) hand, the result of a wild night of heavy partying and boozing. The stain in question refused to budge, no matter how many cups of Tide she used, nor whether she ran the faucet with boiling hot or frigid cold water. Sighing, Cinderella wished she'd remembered her mother's mutterings of stain removers, from the splashes of red wine (or was it white?) to remove table-cloth stains or apple vinegar to scrub off greasy pans. Somehow, she didn't think the Madame would take too kindly to her popping open a vintage 1856 Merlot for such a thing.

Throwing down her yellow gloves in defeat, she left the stain-removing for later and turned to the brand-new self-flushing toilet recently installed in the master bathroom, and, as she remembered, 9 other bathrooms in the mansion. Madame had informed Cinderella that morning that she was to be extremely careful with the ten-thousand dollar toilets, as they were très, très expensive, and worth far more than Cinderella herself. It seemed odd, really, to have to clean the bowl of such an expensive toilet (surely it had some built-in feature that allowed it to routinely maintain its glossy white exterior?), but Cinderella merely nodded as Madame filed her red-lacquered claws, babbling away in a grand mélange of English and French.

At the moment, with the absence of an instructional manual, she stared hesitantly at the new-fangled Royal Doulton toilet that even Brad Pitt supposedly coveted. Hesitantly, Cinderella searched around the toilet for a button of some sort, but was met with endless white porcelain instead. Pouring a generous amount of Clorox, she poked and prodded the interior with a rainbow-hued toilet brush. Unfortunately, the toilet still refused to flush, leaving streaks of blue liquid dribbling down to the now blue-tinged water. Crap. She hastily ducked and swiveled one knob or another against the pipes, relieved to find a slow trickling of water gurgling into the toilet bowl. The trouble was, it now refused to stop. The water continued to trickle in without actually going anywhere, and as a result, reached the brim of the toilet bowl threateningly before overflowing. This happened in a matter of seconds.

Soon, the shiny marble floor was flooded with a rapidly-spreading puddle of blue water, soaking and staining Madame's cream bath mats. Even worse, the toilet now bubbled, emanating an odd whirring sound that grew louder and louder, until at last, it spewed a brilliant spattering of water like the fountain it wasn't. Oh god.

It occurred to Cinderella, as she mopped the floor vigorously, that the telltale omen of misfortune was cast that morning, when a dozen rejection letters arrived in the mail, courtesy of twelve different casting agencies that informed her, in identical automated responses, that they appreciated her enthusiasm for the film industry, but that it was most difficult to represent a low-wage employee with absolutely no experience as an actress. It didn't help that the month-old box of cornflakes produced a scampering fat grey rat wobbling out of its new home, or that her dingy bathroom provided a dance floor for a pair of enormous, scuttling cockroaches. This, added to the spattering of mud upon her faded white sneakers on the way to the mansion, should've screamed 'Stay in bed!', but Cinderella refused to budge, wiping away the stain with her bare hand for the $ 800 salary she'd receive at the end of the day. $ 800, she remembered, that would sadly be deposited in her landlord's mailbox in its entirety, in opposed to purchasing a fancy dinner for one. She was, of course, accustomed to low-key birthdays spent baking a batch of vanilla-frosted Betty Crocker cupcakes for herself, watching prime-time television on the semi-mouldy couch she'd inherited from her mother.

One could even consider her lucky in some respects, for she had no mouths to feed (other than her own), no relatives to support (that she knew of), and essentially, few worries besides performing her housekeeping duties as instructed. Cinderella, however, found this quite tragic. With the idyllic dreams of marrying a handsome Prince Charming far behind her, she discovered what it meant to be independent, self-reliant, but at the same time, alone. Always one to shy away from social situations in fear of the catty girls' remarks on her hand-me-down clothes or her crushes' blind ignorance concerning her existence in high school, she never had a proper best friend…or _any_ friend at all. She was polite to the cashier at her local grocery store, respectful to her landlord, and obedient to her employer, Madame Beverly Cummings. Yes, had she known her mother's history with J.J. Cummings, Cinderella would have knocked on David E. Kelley's door instead, (wasn't he casting for his new pilot?), but her innocence on the matter allowed her to dutifully arrive at seven a.m., Mondays to Fridays, to ensure that the Cummings' huge estate glittered in all its glory. The irony of picking up after her step-sisters, Vanessa and Vivienne Cummings, whose business, it seemed, revolved around table-dancing and club-hopping, failed to amuse Cinderella. Indeed, it was merely the idea of survival that forced her to grit her teeth and tidy the immense bedrooms of the twins, whose walk-in shoe closet stood bigger than her apartment. Christian Louboutins flung here and there, Missoni bikinis tangled in heaps with Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses and Versace haute couture, it was Cinderella's duty to match each strappy espadrille with its counterpart, and to send each rumpled clothing to dry-cleaning.

Had she possessed the emaciated twins' size-zero figures, she would've rejoiced in their daily wardrobe clean-outs. Unfortunately, her own size-six figure was frowned upon in the Cummings' home, and she chose to swallow Madame's drawls of "Do vatever you vant vith it—geev it to your theen seester or somethink," and shrewdly sold the once-only worn clothes on E-Bay, keeping the occasional Marc Jacobs It-Bag or baggy Burberry trench coat to herself. The twins' mile-high heels were out of the question—two sizes too small, too high, and would, in all accounts, snap in an instant or give her the appearance of a clown-on-stilts.

After a half-hour of scrubbing industrial-strength solution onto the marble floor, Cinderella was relieved to find that though the stuff nearly burnt through her rubber gloves, it managed to coax the Italian marble to glisten with its pearl-like glory once again. The toilet, even, seemed to have satisfied its erratic burbling and even flushed itself three times—events which startled Cinderella each consecutive time, accidentally spraying the nozzle full-blast on herself instead of the shower wall. Still dripping wet from the recent hosing-down, she tiptoed to the Jacuzzi bath to scrub it down, only to hear the doorbell via the intercom. Again. And again.

Her heart beating rapidly, Cinderella's mind ran through all the possibilities—surely Madame couldn't be back yet? A quick check of her watch told her that it was only 10:30. Was it the postman? DHL? Adrien Brody? The last option popped in her head out of nowhere—obviously Adrien Brody had far better things to do than stroll up to the Cummings' doorstep to see if the twins were around. Wasn't he promoting his latest Oscar-buzzed film at Cannes or something? Besides, Adrien was far classier than that…or at least, she hoped so. Shrugging off her nonsensical thoughts, she returned to the Jacuzzi, only to hear the infernal thing chime again and again.

Throwing down the sponge, Cinderella hurried out the door, racing down the grand, Persian-rugged staircase. This had better be the man of her dreams.

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Author's Note: I took a chance and figured that if I didn't actually use them as talking characters, references to real actors would be acceptable to the Fanfiction overlords. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. ) 


	2. The Very Fairy Godmother

Chapter 2 :

_**The Very Fairy Godmother**_

_Ding-dong!_ The doorbell chimed annoyingly. _Ding-dong! Ding-dong!_ Where was everyone in the whole fucking mansion, anyway? Like say, the butler, second butler, or whoever answered the fucking doorbell?

Rubber gloves plastered against her wrists, beads of sweat clinging desperately to her limp locks, Cinderella sprinting all the way down the marble staircase and nearly tripping over Vivienne's beloved mini dachshund. Cursing under her breath, she shooed the dog away—the thing was wearing a ludicrous rhinestone-beaded outfit that spelt 'Diva' across its sausage-like body. Cinderella jogged across the marble-tiled floor, fumbled with the enormous set of keys dangling from the lock and finally yanked open the massive double-doors. She came face to face with _a_ man, but certainly not _the_ man of her dreams. This was a man standing—no, _posing_ with a well-manicured hand placed on his bony hip. This was the man of her nightmares.

"All right chiquitas, let's make some magic!" The man adorned in an electric-blue feather boa and polka-dotted black shirt yelled out at no one in particular. Upon seeing the disheveled maid, he lowered his Gucci sunglasses, raising one eyebrow expectantly. "And who might _you_ be?"

"I'm Cinderella. The maid. Who are you?"

"I'm your fairy godmother, what does it look like?" He snapped, shifting his bulging Louis Vuitton satchel across his narrow shoulders. "Is that any way to be treating a guest now, Missy? For all you know, I could be the next Ben-freakin'-Affleck."

"But you're not."

"Fine, Ben's too chunky anyway. I'm more Sean Hayes, with a hint of Leo in _Titanic_." Ri-ighht. "Well? Are you going to let me in, or are you going to stand there with your unibrow, staring at my fabulosity all day?"

Cinderella grudgingly stepped aside, letting the odd she-man in. "You still haven't answered my question. Who the hell are you?"

With a well-performed pirouette, he spun around and smoothed the back pocket of his leather pants. "Sebastian L. Lovett—celebrity stylist _extraordinaire_. I did Eva's style before she got to Wisteria Lane, Scarlett before the boob job (trust me, she had one), Angie before the whole Brangelina thing, ugh, then, let's see, who else have I done? Denise before Richie, but après le messy divorce, (quel horreur that one was!), Gisele before she lost Leo to that other Angel (shocking!), Cameron before she got dumped on her ass by J-T, oh and I once did Keira for the Oscars. '05."

After listing his past clients without even a pause for breath, Cinderella thought it only polite to strike up the briefest of conversations with Sebastian L. Lovett.

"Did you do anything…after?"

"Well…" He busied himself with shining his sunglasses. "The thing is, whenever an actress or starlet or whoever gets kicked to the curb by their latest boy-toy, or when they get engaged or married or whatev, they have this crazy idea that they need a new image…kinda like Angie's whole mommy look, and Eva's new leopard-print phase, so who do they blame for their fat thighs and cellulite but moi, their stylist?"

Cinderella wanted to argue that none of the aforementioned starlets were even remotely out of shape, but thought it better to humor him and nod in agreement.

Sebastian sighed, perched his glasses back on his near-shiny bald head, and shrugged. "Hey, that's Hollywood, right?"

"So…basically, you're a has-been stylist." Cinderella said matter-of-factly.

Sebastian L. Lovett gasped feverishly. "Do-not-say-that-filthy-word, you, you Latina biatch!"

"What, 'has-been' ?"

"I have a mind to speed-dial Madame Cummings and tell her that I found you trying to shoehorn yourself into Vanessa's new Armani Privé!" He whipped out a lipstick-red cell Sidekick.

"All right," Cinderella conceded, rolling her eyes at his theatrics. "Well, the twins aren't home and Madame Cummings is out at some luncheon or tea party or something."

"Hmm," Sebastian nodded, ignoring her entire statement. He seemed to have the attention span of a ferret, for he was now surveying her appearance as though he were a chef and she a Norwegian salmon filet—or, by the looks of his wrinkled nose, a rotten slab of tuna. "Okay, well, what's going on here?" His finger pointed up and down at her disheveled uniform. "I get that maids have to wear uniforms and all that in Bev Hills, but um, isn't there some kind of union where you guys all discuss things like, I dunno, which brand of detergent works best? Because your main priority should be having cute outfits to wear if you have to scrub someone's poo off their toilet bowls."

Cinderella stared at him as though he were mad. "There isn't a union for domestic housekeepers. We work for agencies. And the uniform is mandatory if the house-owner considers it necessary."

"So you're saying the Madame makes you wear that ratty old thing? Ugh, call the Fashion Police, already."

Thinking that this conversation was a waste of her cleaning time (the toilet debacle had already robbed her of a precious half hour), she inched her way back to the staircase.

"Well, I'm sure you're welcome to stay here and wait till they come back," Cinderella pointed to the sitting lounge awkwardly, "I kind of have lots of work to do, so…" her voice trailed off.

Sebastian L. Lovett did not answer. He was already half-skipping to the expansive kitchen, no doubt to harass Cook for some yummy tidbits—foie gras on toast, perhaps? Cinderella shook her head, but was glad to return to her work without much hassle. After all, she still had the rest of the mansion (minus the spare bedrooms and bathrooms, thank god) to clean.

A good solid hour later, Cinderella managed to finish vacuuming and tidying the master bedroom and continued on to Vivienne's across the hall. This was a disaster zone—piles of dirty clothes tangled with unworn ones the heiress had apparently deemed unfit to wear for the day. Now an expert at sorting through them, she weaved her way through the room, tossing the odd Michael Kors espadrille back in the shoe closet. Halfway through making Vivienne's lavender-hued bed, she heard a familiar nasaly voice from behind her.

"Oh my god, you actually _do_ the cleaning."

Cinderella turned around to find Sebastian L. Lovett leaning against the doorway, a Godiva chocolate cigar lolling out of his mouth. Rolling her eyes at him, she turned back to fluffing the pillows.

"I'm bored." Sebastian announced, sashaying into the room and examining various framed photos. "Cook practically threatened to castrate me if I ate any more of _Madame's_ Pierre Marcolini truffles." He plopped on the just-made bed, wrinkling the satin duvet. "Apparently she's making some soufflé au frou frou. Personally, I think she just wants to get back to watching The Young and the Restless and eating the truffles herself."

"Why are you still here?"

Sebastian tutted. "You really do have quite the bedside manner, don't you? One would _think_ you'd be happy for a little company to keep you entertained from this so-boring-I-could-practically-die 'job' of yours."

Cinderella ignored him and began putting clothes back on their velvet-padded hangers.

"Do you ever try their clothes on?" Sebastian leaned forward conspirationally. "Don't worry, I won't tell. That would be _my_ worst fear, to have my maid trying on all my clothes. That's so 'Maid in Manhattan' though, isn't it? Ooh, you wouldn't fit though, would you? Okay, I know, what about say, her La Mer stuff? I mean, you know, don't you ever have the impulse to just _take_ one…just a little moisturizer or something."

"No." She answered flatly. Maybe if she turned on the vacuum cleaner she could drown out his never-ending chatter.

"Are you kidding? When would you ever have the chance to use the stuff if you didn't steal a tad bit here and there? Wait, don't tell me. You have a sugar daddy somewhere, don't you?" He excitedly hopped off the bed to follow her to the bathroom. "No wait, that doesn't make sense, you wouldn't be a maid. Oh, I know! Is he a C.I.A. agent? Are you? Is this like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality?"

Oh god. His pointless drivel was beginning to give her a migraine.

"Cook tells me you live in some hobo apartment, and you live off, like, lima beans or something. Are you sure you don't nick the occasional Kiehl's?" He opened a bottle of shampoo and sniffed it. "Hmm, this is nice."

"Look, I don't need to steal their million-dollar clothes, or their shoes, or their face wash or ass cream or whatever the hell it is that you think I steal! I'm just trying to do my job here, and you're pissing the hell out of me."

Her voice sounded a little more aggressive and shrill than she'd intended. Her face felt a little hot, come to think of it.

"Woah, okay Rage-ina, just askin' a question. Don't go all Jack Nicholson on me. What's your problem, anyway?"

She attempted to dodge his question, but his constant prodding pushed her over the edge. "My problem is that it's my _birthday_ and I have to spend it scrubbing these people's ten-thousand toilets, and these toilets can't even clean themselves, so I don't know why the hell they're paying ten grand for them, and maybe because my flat is smaller than this girl's closet, and one of her shoes could pay for my rent, and I'm twenty-one and when I go home tonight, no one's gonna be there to throw me a surprise party except for the rats and the cockroaches, while these bitches get a 500-person guest list for their million-dollar party, and it makes no difference to them, cause they were born to million-dollar cradles! I have no one to see, no one to go to, and no foreseeable future!"

"Why didn't you just say so instead of screaming it into my ear? Sheesh." Sebastian L. Lovett filed his nails as though she'd just listed a McDonald's menu instead of her life's story. "Why don't you just move in here? Cook lives here. Butler 1 and Butler 2 live here."

The thought _had_ occurred to her, but a larger problem stood behind it. Madame never proposed such an arrangement, and the idea of living in the mansion 24/7 meant that she'd never again experience the relief of walking out the front door every evening to return to her dingy, depressing flat, that was, at the very least, all hers. This escape from the world of luxury she visited but could not indulge in, comforted her.

"It's complicated."

"That's what the sad girls say when they can't get their men to commit. Are you a sad girl, Cindy?" He shook his head emphatically. "I bet I could get her to do it in a snap." He gloated.

Before Cinderella could argue any further, the distant revving of a Rolls Royce interrupted their conversation. Madame was home. Sebastian sprinted out the door like a sick puppy scrambling to greet its owner. He'd probably beat the dachshund.

Sighing, Cinderella went back to rinsing her washcloth and scrubbing the flecks of Colgate toothpaste and La Mer face toner off the mirror. The day would soon be over.

"Maid! Maa-aiiid!!" A screechy voice yelled from downstairs.

Straightening her uniform and hastily swiping at a large stain on the front of her faux-apron, Cinderella cautiously trod out the hallway and down the stairs. What could Madame possibly want? She barely spoke to her except at weekly payments; her disapproval or rare compliments were usually passed along via Butler or Second Butler.

As she peeked from the top of the staircase, Madame's platinum-blonde poof stood several inches taller than usual. Her platinum-blonde mane bobbed slightly while she spoke in hushed tones with her twin daughters, whose margarine-yellow and straw-hued tresses screamed 'Extensions!' Even their outfits matched: fuschia pink, Barbie-pink and baby-pink, respectively.

"Maid." Madame spoke to her before she'd even reached the bottom of the stairs. Her back faced Cinderella. "Seh-basti-enne tells me that you leeve in a flea-invested home, and that large een-sects crawl all over you vhen you sleep." Madame addressed her before Cinderella reached the bottom stair. "Thees ees seemplee unacceptable. I do not vish leetle insects to come to my home. You veel pack up your tings and return hee-yah after you 'ave feenished your doo-tees."

Out of the corner of her eyes, Cinderella could see Sebastian looking smug. She, however, refused to give him the benefit of a sing-song 'I told you so!' and refused to meet his triumphant gaze.

"Thank you, Madame."

"I expect that you veel find these comfortable arrangements to signivy a higher level of commitment. And as you know, eet ees the tweens' birthday thees Sunday. Vah-ne-ssah and Vee-vee-enne's Costume Ball party ees een that evening, so you veel have to help Cook, maybe. Your resumé says that you are Cordon Bleu trained, yes?"

Seeing as this was not a question, Cinderella merely nodded. When Madame did not speak for a while, she turned to climb the staircase.

"Deed I say I vas feenished talking? Vhy the help ees so dumb, I vill never understand. Butler vill show you your room at 6 pm. I expect you veel be feenished vith the cleaning then."

Cinderella nodded again. Sebastian and the twins were already half-way up the stairs, embroiled in a heated discussion about their gowns—"Magenta?", "No, that'll look dreadful, what about cranberry?", "Should I go A-line or fishtail?"

"And Maid?" Madame finally turned, like some kind of nefarious villain behind her ink-black Jackie-O shades. "I should hope that I pay you for clea-ning, not cha-tting vith my daughters' stylist." She pursed her pouffy, ruby-red lips, stalking out of the entrance hall to interrogate Cook.

The conversation was officially over.

**

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** Thank you reviewers, I promise to update as frequently as possible as I'm on summer vacation and have nothing but time. 

**Coming Up:** Prince Charming and a few surprises you may not have expected.


	3. Hello, Prince Charming

Chapter 3 :

**_Hello, Prince Charming_**

Hours later, as she stood at her empty apartment with her few precious valuables crammed into a beaten-up duffle bag, Cinderella didn't feel too sorry about leaving. She'd informed her landlord, paid him last month's rent, and packed up her items within a half hour. It seemed odd to her that her whole life could be stowed in a single bag, without the hefty moving trucks and muscle-bound men to heave furniture in and out.

On the way to the manse, Cinderella passed by the chic boutiques on Rodeo Drive, strolled past baby boutiques and doggy boutiques without a second glance. Then, approaching North Beverly Drive, she stood in front of The Cheesecake Factory, debating whether she should buy herself a large slice of cake. After all, she no longer had her monthly rent to worry about.

The door popped open and out walked the most gorgeous of Hollywood's leading men—Preston Carter, or as the tabloids loved to call him, _Prince Charming_. Before she could revel in his awe-inspiring aura any further, he tripped, propelling the large cake box in his hands forward…and onto Cinderella's just-washed jeans.

"Oh god, I am so sorry," He breathed, staring at the spectacular mess of whipped cream and cheesecake splattered down her front. He whipped off his sunglasses—(why did celebrities wear sunglasses after dark anyway?) and glanced around helplessly for tissues. Possibly _inside_ the bakery he'd just walked out of??

Cinderella, however, couldn't say a word. She realized how ridiculous she looked with cake hanging down her front, but she was simply mesmerized by the way his dark-green tee-shirt clung to his well-defined abs, or the way his faded jeans…well. Let's not go there. Knowing full well that her cheeks were flaming scarlet, she looked up to meet the sparkling green eyes she'd seen plastered on buses across L.A.

"Um, well, I just, um," Crap. What the hell was she saying?

"Listen, I'll just go get tissues, but uh, I'll pay whatever dry-cleaning bills I caused." He rushed back in.

Dry cleaning bills? _Dry cleaning bills??_ Her jeans had gone through so many broken-washing-machine-washes that they changed shades on a weekly basis.

Before she could drool over his dreaminess, he came back out with wads of paper towels, half damp with club soda and water. Smart man.

"Um, don't worry about it, it's okay," Cinderella insisted, but he'd already attempted wiping away the cheesecake. In years to come, she would strongly recall his fingers brushing ever so lightly against the creases of her jeans.

"I'm really sorry," He said again finally, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. "Here's a fifty—"

"No, no, it's really okay, it's fine." Cinderella found herself blushing once again.

"Well, okay then," Preston Carter stood hesitantly, the wads of sticky tissue still hanging limply from one hand.

"Yeah. Um, you might wanna get a new cake." She offered uselessly.

"Yeah. Yeah," he motioned towards the doorway. "Okay then. Sorry again," He waved goodbye and headed into the bakery.

"No problem," Cinderella murmured at no one in particular. Passers-by glanced fleetingly at her creamy, sticky jeans with distaste. She couldn't care less. Walking all the way up Beverly Hills to the Cummings' mansion, Cinderella shuffled on a cloud of air a foot above the ground, all thoughts of a birthday cake forgotten. She couldn't remember another birthday when Hollywood's Prince Charming almost fell into her lap.

When she finally reached the wrought-iron gates of the Cummings mansion, she crept into the side-entrance, hoping that she could avoid being told off for her disheveled appearance. The side-entrance led to the pantry, where she hoped that Esmeralda, the Cook, would ask few questions and allow her to change in the safety of her new bedroom.

Unfortunately, Second Butler, a strict, appropriate man, opened the door to usher her in. "You're late." He sniffed disapprovingly. "Madame has been inquiring as to your tardiness."

"Sorry, I got held up," Cinderella apologized. "Could I just change quickly?"

"By all means," Second Butler waved her away as though she were a pesky fly. "Report promptly to the kitchen when you are finished…_tidying_ yourself. Cook requires your help." And with that, he turned on his well-polished heel and left.

The servants' quarters were almost a separate building from the rest of the mansion. The butlers' rooms were rather larger and more comfortable, Cinderella considered, whereas hers was the tiniest and most modest. This was the hierarchy of the household staff—First Butler, Second Butler, Cook, then Maid. She couldn't complain, however, as the 'tiny' room was moderately spacious, with crips white linen sheets and simplistic décor. She even had her own bathroom—a significantly added improvement from the grubby hallway toilet in her old flat. Though she longed to take a long, cold shower after her long day's work, she settled to wiggle out of her sticky jeans and slip on her maid's uniform. Running a hand through her messy hair quickly, she tied it back into a simple bun before slipping out into the kitchen.

"Esmeralda?" She asked the Cook tentatively, "Butler said you needed help."

The plump woman turned and beckoned her to the sink. "Yes, can you please wash up those dishes—I've been swamped with endless cooking since noon. Ay, these people never stop eating, but they're still thin as a stick."

Cinderella dutifully picked up the heavy china piled next to the sink and began soaping each dish and rinsing it thoroughly, again and again.

"Even worse, there's that party they're having on Sunday!" Esmeralda continued, garnishing mini tartlets with juicy strawberries. "They say they have Wolfgang Puck catering but the old witch is still making me make appetizers all over the place. She tells me you trained in some fancy cooking school, that true?"

"Oh! No, just plain old home-cooking." Cinderella answered honestly.

"Your mama taught you?" Esmeralda asked conversationally. Cinderella nodded. "That's the best kind, mi hija. You know, the Madame don't want me to cook in this house, she want some French chef, but Mr. Cummings loved my cooking—I worked for his mother before. And besides, nobody wants to work as domestic chef for long, they just too busy getting TV shows and working for some big restaurant." She placed the last mini tartlet on a silver tray. "There. Two dozen tartlets for just four people."

Cinderella glanced up from her washing, her stomach rumbling with hunger. She hadn't eaten since the Egg McMuffin she'd grabbed on the way to work that morning. The strawberry tartlets were lined up on the silver tray in an artsy flower-shape.

Esmeralda caught her eye. Cinderella looked away, focusing on scrubbing a Black & Decker blender. "A little birdie told me that it's your birthday."

"Sebastian?" Cinderella looked up in surprise.

"Is that his name? He come in here every time, always going through the fridge and hassling me—today, he came and ate a whole box of truffles by himself, then he annoy me so much I send him off with a sandwich." Esmeralda moved pots and pans aside, wiping the counter beside the immense stove. "I didn't think you got time for any dinner, so I baked you a little something."

Cinderella turned around. Esmeralda opened one of the silver oven-doors slightly and pointed at a tray of cupcakes. "They're not done yet. But I got this recipe for key-lime cupcakes, they're gonna be delicious. I was gonna make a special dinner as well, but I didn't have enough time."

"Wow, thanks so much," Cinderella felt overwhelmed by her generosity. "I know you have tons to do—"

"Hey, I got bored of making mini quiches. And it looks like we got plenty of leftovers, so we'll be fine."

Butler walked in and seized the tray of mini tartlets without a word. His face seemed to be contorted in rigid fury. Esmeralda sighed. "He's actually the nice one, but Second Butler—his name's Paul, he's trying to get Butler fired, so he's a little on edge."

"Gosh, I didn't know that." Cinderella began toweling off the larger pots and pans.

"There's a lot you don't know when you clock out at 6 pm, kid. There's a lotta gossip that goes on 'round here." Esmeralda spread out a sheet of dough and began rolling it into little cups. "You got a boyfriend?"

"No," she answered immediately. A slow blush spread across her cheeks.

"Oh, so no boyfriend, but there is someone! Come on, who is it?" Esmeralda prodded, sticking her spatula out. It dripped creamy sauce on the kitchen floor. "Ay, grab that mop, will you?"

Cinderella obliged. "It's no one, really. I'm not seeing anyone, when do I have the time to be dating when this job takes me from morning till night?"

"That's the problem, isn't it? But a pretty girl like you will find a man soon enough. Maybe a postman or a baker…you know, someone _stable_."

Cinderella could only think of Preston Carter and his chocolate-brown hair.

"Those twins, they're always comin' home in the early morning, always partying at some club till they get so drunk they pass out." Esmeralda shook her head. "I can hear them comin' in, they're giggling and dropping their keys, then they sleep till noon the next day. Can't get any good man like that. But I hear—" she glanced at the doorway briefly and leaned closer to Cinderella—"I hear that Vanessa has a crush on that actor, what is his name, um, you know the one who's in that movie with that pretty actress, he's so good-looking, he's got these big green eyes—oh! His face is on that bus for some movie advertisement, you know his name?"

Cinderella's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. "Preston Carter?"

"Yeah! Now he's a handsome man, how old is he, you think? Twenty-five? Twenty-eight? I hear Vanessa want him to come to the party and he's gonna come cause Mr. Cummings, he's the big producer for the film."

Oh.god. OH.GOD. Preston Carter was coming to the party. Here, at the house, where she, Cinderella, worked.

"You okay, mi hija? You look a little pale." Esmeralda's brow furrowed in scrutiny. "Don't worry, we'll be eating soon, after the family finish up."

Cinderella nodded, stacking up the expensive china. Her mind was reeling at this news—what if Preston Carter dated Vanessa? She, the waif with the margarine-blonde extensions down to her waist, with the size-zero ass and the simpering attitude, seemed to have a much better chance at landing a hotshot movie star than Cinderella, the plain, ordinary maid, with the size-six ass and the girl-next-door charms.

"My daughter loves him. She talk all the time bout his movies, and how handsome he is, until one day, I go with her to see his movie just to see what all the talk is about…then I see it myself: he's so charming and so handsome! I say to my daughter, a man like that, he's gotta have lots of girlfriends, and she say 'No Mama, I read Us Weekly all the time, and they all love him, he's never partyin' or goin' to clubs and getting drunk." Esmeralda stacked the pots and pans back in their rightful cabinets.

"God, can you imagine dating a man like that? You gotta be some kind of real princess for him to fall in love with you. He's a real Prince Charming." Esmeralda smiled.

Cinderella fought to suppress a rising giggle. She felt like a schoolgirl, giddy with puppy love of some kind. She'd only met him once—maybe he wasn't as lovely and fabulous as everyone mentioned. "A real princess, huh?" She mused.

"Yeah, like one of those girls who can just say, 'Hello,' and make him fall head-over-heels in love with her. Other girls, they don't stand a chance."

Cinderella turned away. She'd already met Preston Carter. She hadn't said 'Hello' or even 'Hey', she'd mumbled an incoherent 'Afajemkfi," or something of the sort. Silently, she vowed to herself that if she'd ever have the rare chance to see him again, she would demurely murmur, "_Hello_, Prince Charming."

* * *

Author's Note: Two chapters in one night! Phew. Good eye on the accidental 'Preston Burke' typo--I've been watching too much Grey's Anatomy, it seems. P Reviews are always appreciated, and more frequent updates to come.

Coming Soon: The Costume Ball, the magical transformation and another encounter with Prince Charming.


	4. Moonlight Masquerade

Disclaimer: Any work you recognize is (if not precisely quoted) the work of William Shakespeare in _Sonnet 18_ and excerpts from John Keats' poem, _'Ode on Melancholy'_. Now, without further ado...

* * *

Chapter 4 :

Moonlight Masquerade

On Saturday, Cinderella awoke to a persistent hammering on her bedroom door. In a dream-like stupor, she sat up in bed, wondering groggily for a moment whether a large man in a black suit would kick down the door, point a gun to her, and holler 'FBI!!!" Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes (a brief glance at the window told her that the sun hadn't appeared yet), Cinderella rolled out of bed to find the perpetrator, though she had a nasty feeling she already knew.

In stark contrast to her wrinkled, smurf-print pajamas, first-Butler stood outside her door clad in his neatly-pressed uniform—a traditional tuxedo, pin-striped pants and well-polished shoes. His gloved hand was still raised as though ready to knock again. Surveying her disheveled appearance with distinct disapproval, he announced,

"Cook is already up preparing the hors d'oeuvres for tomorrow's ball. I suggest you scurry yourself out of bed and help her. I myself am extremely busy ensuring that the household is in order." First Butler puffed his chest out impressively at this last bit of authority.

Cinderella did not trust herself to speak, for she was in the state of mind to keel over and fall asleep on the floor. Instead, she nodded dutifully, closed the door and waddled to the bathroom, where she turned the shower on full-blast. Precisely ten minutes later, she walked into the massive kitchen, tucked into her maid's uniform, her ponytail still dripping slightly with icy-cold water.

Esmeralda stood hunched over the long island-table, squirting spinach filling into endless rows of mini quiches. Her eyes looked terribly bloodshot; her apron splattered with flour and what appeared to be dabs of cheese and indistinguishable sauces. Her face broke into a tired smile upon seeing Cinderella, and they worked wordlessly for hours, until the birds awoke from their slumber, chirping and tweeting away and bright sunlight filtered through the silk-curtained windows. By then, Cinderella's fingers ached from rolling and pinching bits of dough into tiny cups—her arms were white and floury, but nothing compared to Esmeralda's, whose hands seemed to be encased in solid crust.

As their fifth batch of quiches baked in the oven, First Butler stomped in with a bundle of crisp white napkins, scowling furiously, but nevertheless, maintaining his usual air of propriety. He was soon followed by Second Butler, who strode in with an air of dignified superiority. He went about refolding First Butler's swan-shaped napkins with an ostentatious flourish, again and again, until finally:

"They were perfectly fine the way they were!" First Butler blurted out, his face turning an odd shade of puce. "You would do better, Cedric," he said, straightening his lapel with controlled rage, "to polish the silverware required for tonight's ball."

Second Butler opened his mouth to speak, but as though a thought suddenly occurred to him, he clasped his mouth shut and grinned sinisterly, his whiskery moustache twitching and his beady eyes narrowing into tiny slits. Cinderella thought that he looked rather like an overzealous rat who'd come across a stray wedge of Brie. It seemed terribly odd. "_As you wish._"

The gown did not remotely resemble Vanessa's Barbie pink or Vivienne's gaudy gold—but exuded a rich, shimmering rose. Its bodice fitted tightly, accentuating her slender waist and smoothing away her less-than-perfect stomach. Its built-in corset teased at a hint of décolletage, its trumpet sleeves lavished her toilet-plunging arms.

"Turn around! Do a little twirl!" Sebastian ordered, hardly containing his excitement.

Cinderella obliged, her eyes never leaving the mirror in rapt awe. The gown seemed to possess some indeterminable magic that transformed the ordinary household domestique into the a fairy-tale princess—elegant, sophisticated and utterly stunning.

"Well do me now, I did it! You look fantabulous." Sebastian snapped his fingers with glee. "Except…" he frowned at her face in scrutiny, "we need to something about your hair, ugh, it looks like you dipped it in a toilet and combed it with a loofah. And we need to pluck that unibrow," he murmured as an afterthought. "Listen, I know! I'll call in a few favours…" he reached for his Sidekick, hit Speed-dial and waited after a few rings, "Hello Marcell? Hi, darling. Oh, I'm faboo, how's life with that hunky boytoy of yours? Oh, really? That sounds god-awful, I'm shedding a tear for you. Uh-huh, well he was a manwhore anyway. Listen, doll, I have a fun little project going on right now, it's kinda like The Swan meets Extreme Makeover. I was thinking that you and Antonio could come over and help me out with hair and make-up, it'll be tons of fun! Uh-huh. Yeah, we're at the Cummings' Bev Hills manse. Oh good, okay, I'll see you in five then. Love you too." He hung up the phone with a swift beep. "They're just down the street at the Hiltons' manse. We're in business."

"We should probably get you out of that gown." Esmeralda stepped forward, moving to unzip her. She struggled with the jammed zipper for several minutes, until finally admitting, "It's stuck."

"Oh. Crap." Sebastian eyed the situation, growing increasingly panicked. "Can you sit without busting the seams?"

Cinderella attempted to do so with extreme cautiousness, keeping her back completely rigid and her stomach sucked in. The gown, however, refused to allow her to slouch on the bed. The best she could do was lean against the bedpost in an awkward position.

"Okay, Sebby, think, _think_." The stylist muttered to himself, growing increasingly panicked. "We can probably cut you out of the dress later—nobody'll miss a size 6, even though it _is_ an Elie Saab, but it was for a pregnant celebrity anyway, so it's okay. Um, shit, I guess you'll have to stand while Marcell and Antonio do your hair and make-up."

Before Cinderella could protest at the idea of standing like a full-fledged mannequin for an hour, the doorbell rang, signaling the duo's arrival. Seconds later, first Butler stood stiffly at the doorway.

"There is a pair of gentlemen at the door, they claim to be guests." He announced. His voice cracked, as though he were on the verge of bursting into tears. Even his mousy brown hair seemed rather mussed; it gave him the odd appearance of a harassed mouse.

"Is something wrong?" Cinderella asked tentatively.

"I have just been informed by Madame that my services will no longer be required." First Butler replied solemnly.

"What?" Esmeralda asked, aghast. "Did she say why?"

"I believe her precise words were, 'Go to hell, you lying thief,' " He recited in a voice of dull monotony.

"Thief? But you didn't--?"

"Somehow, the silverware found its way into my bedside drawer. Incidentally, Cedric was prowling about there earlier this afternoon looking for a flashlight."

Cinderella and Esmeralda exchanged a knowing glance.

"Where are you going to go?" Esmeralda asked helplessly.

"Seeing as my working permit is based upon this job, I highly doubt Madame will write a fanciful reference letter or make the appropriate calls." First Butler sniffed disdainfully. "No, I think it's best if I return to Devonshire."

"Why don't you stay here a little longer? There'll be lots of food and they won't know you're here a few extra hours," Esmeralda offered.

First Butler hesitated, standing at the doorway as if unsure whether to enter or leave the room. "All right," he conceded, then after a moment, eyes downcast, humbly spoke, "Call me Paul."

The hour passed by quickly. Marcell and Antonio bustled in, setting up 'shop' in a matter of seconds, transforming a bare dresser into a full-fledged make-up and hair station. If it weren't for the stark white bedspread and pristine surroundings that clashed with the plethora of colourful products and appliances, their corner could have passed for a salon.

Cinderella barely spoke through the entire process. Flummoxed by the three Mouseketeers as she secretly nicknamed them, who sweeped in and out of the bubble surrounding her, Antonio, Marcell and Sebastian worked like chattery little mice, straightening locks of hair, curling them into soft waves and dabbing bits of make-up she couldn't even identify, all the while gossiping about everyone who's anyone in Hollywood. As if this wasn't altogether confusing enough, their speech overlapped one another in brief phrases juxtaposed with run-on sentences.

"Britney--?"

"No duh, she's all in rehab then out, and then oh my god, the whole Lindsay-gate? As if the Paris-scandal wasn't huge enough as it is…"

"Leo cheating—"

"What about mousse? Do you think gel or mousse?"

"Of course he is, have you seen the looks of her—"

"—drinking and boozing, but who doesn't love that, right?"

"Smoky eyeshadow might be too much, I think just eyeliner and—"

"—but the biggest cheater of them all, is of course—"

"No, okay, I think a soft shimmery pink on the lips…"

By this time, Cinderella knew well enough to tune out the Mouseketeers and attempt to listen to the hushed conversation between Esmeralda and Paul.

"—can't let him get away, (a muffled sound, then) do something about it, like—"

Esmeralda's words were drowned out by a loud guffaw. "As if! Seb, you did not sleep with Ricky Martin—"

"I did too, and I can prove it!" Sebastian shouted indignantly.

"—should just accept that Cedric would've done anything for the job—sister in Devonshire—"

Cinderella leaned against the bedpost uncomfortably, part of her hair rolled in curlers and her face packed in artistically dabbed layers of expensive make-up. She wondered vaguely whether either Antonio or Marcell knew of the no-commission package of it all, and if not, how they would react. The idea of them storming out in a huff seemed promisingly amusing; the idea of them dunking her head in a bathtub did not.

Minutes later, curlers pulled out, eyes prickling after being prodded and poked with eyeliner, mascara and approximately twenty different shades of eyeshadow, Cinderella turned to the full-length mirror on the opposite end of the room and stared at her reflection. It did not, however, look anything like herself. The girl in the mirror was not just any girl, her hair perfectly coiffed in an intricate arrangement of loose waves both framing her cheekbones and twisted up to reveal her delicate shoulders—shoulders she did not even know she possessed. Even in the fluorescent glow of Antonio's lamp, her face glowed radiantly, her eyes shimmering seductively, bringing out the chocolate brown hue to an irresistible measure. She looked nothing short of a princess.

"Okay, now, here is your mask," Sebastian pulled out a cranberry, gold-trimmed feathery mask that covered one's eyes and perched on a wooden stick. "Now remember, you absolutely cannot draw attention to yourself, do not come close to Vanessa or Vivienne or Mrs. Cummings or Mr. Cummings, do not fall in the pool, do not trip, DO NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID!" He ended in a shrill voice, his eyes popping out rather insistently.

" Relax, Seb, she'll be fine. Remember if Britney can, she can. What's your name again?" Marcell glanced over at her inquisitively.

"Cinderella…"

"Right, yes, just kidding! Haha, okay, but seriously, are we not getting paid for this?" He turned to Antonio and back at Sebastian.

"Think of it as charity work, like doing something for people less fortunate," Sebastian said smoothly, "So now you don't have to give money to that homeless guy near Saks Fifth, cause you already did your part for the month!"

"Try 'year'," snorted Antonio, "This was no simple feat, you know."

They seemed to forget that Cinderella stood less than a foot away from them. She chose to ignore them—the butterflies in her stomach seemed to have transformed into large frogs on Ecstasy, hopping madly around as they pleased.

"Right, okay," she smoothed down her gown, but immediately took her hands away. Her palms were damp with nervous sweat, creating a minor, indistinguishable stain on her front.

"You look lovely." A hoarse voice murmured. Cinderella turned to see First Butler—no, Paul, seated on a chair near the bed, giving her an appraising look.

"We'll just let you slip out the kitchen door." Esmeralda bounded towards the door, her heavy frame sashaying from side to side.

It seemed inordinately unreal. One moment, she was standing in the maids' quarters uncomfortably…the next, she stood at the doorway leading towards the vast gardens that now seemed to possess the temptation of an enchanted forest.

She turned back towards the kitchen, where the Mouseketeers stood behind the stout Esmeralda, beaming at her. "I just wanted to say...I mean, I know you did this for free, and, I just, I'm—thank you."

"Oh, go on!" Sebastian shooed her out the door. "And don't let us catch you here without a decent man!"

"But be back before midnight!" Esmeralda hissed warningly, "Madame never gets in a minute later or sooner."

Cinderella nodded dutifully, then slipped out the door and into the extravagant gala. It felt as though she'd stepped out into an entirely different world—one with iridescent pink bulbs on evergreen trees that resembled faerie lights, shimmering chiffon draped across pillars and long tables bearing crisp white cloths under trays and trays of endless gourmet delights. Her eyes did not have to stray far—standing alone, obscurely hidden to all others behind a large tree trunk stood Preston Carter in a dashing tuxedo, sipping a flute mournfully.

He looked up and gazed at her from across the garden—there, Cinderella stood, standing foolishly in a gown and shoes that were not her own, but could not gaze at anything and anyone else but him. Surreptitiously glancing about, Preston Carter snuck from tree to bush to hedge like a stealthy spy…or more precisely, an agile, nimble squirrel. Cinderella stood rooted to the spot, transfixed and amused by his ploy, but paralysed with an overriding fear of being recognized.

"Hi," He smiled at her, popping out from behind a rose bush.

"Hello," Cinderella murmured. _Demure,_ she reminded herself, _be demure!_ She couldn't help staring at his ash-blonde hair combed neatly to the side. He looked awfully innocent, his cheeks tinged with pink spots and his emerald-green eyes sparkling from a nearby faerie light.

"I swear this isn't a line, but I feel like I know you from somewhere," He tilted his head to one side, squinting at her as if to remember. "Hang on, have we met somewhere?"

"No!" Cinderella blurted out quickly. "No, I don't think so," She attempted to quell her jangling nerves.

"Oh. All right then. I'm Preston Carter." There was that irresistible smile again—complete with impish dimple and those amazing green eyes… "And you are…?"

"Oh! I'm…Ella. Ella Morgan." God, why hadn't she thought this through in the past hour?

"Ella. Would you like to take a walk with me through the garden?" He offered his arm to her as though he were a Victorian gentleman.

"Sure."

"So, Ella. How do you know the Cummings?" Preston asked her comfortably. They skirted past rows of tall trees until the clatter of plates and voices grew dim in the distance.

"I work for them." Ella answered honestly. "What about you?"

"J.J.'s producing this film I'm in. This isn't really my kind of thing," He shrugged, "but he specifically requested for me to be here, so…" his voice trailed off. "I was relatively hidden up until the point you stared directly at me."

"I wasn't staring!" She replied indignantly.

Preston smiled teasingly. "Okay, you weren't. Maybe I was staring." His green eyes danced humorously.

Ella's cheeks felt particularly warm. She bit her lip to stop from grinning. "So…you don't like parties? What do you do then?"

"I read good books. Scripts. Write a little. I'm kind of a loner," he confessed. "This whole bar-party scene doesn't interest me."

"Really? What sort of books do you read?"

"Mostly historical fiction. Also Shakespeare…I'm waiting to do one of his lesser known plays as a film." He glanced at her inquisitive gaze. "One in particular, actually. Captain Wentworth in _Persuasion_." His British accent accentuated his last words.

"That's my favourite!" Ella barely contained her enthusiasm. "I've always, always wanted to play Anna, but…" Her voice trailed off.

"Are you an actress?" Preston asked. "I'm sorry, I don't keep up with all the new talent that comes up."

"No, no, just…an aspiring actress." She murmured.

"Ah." He nodded knowledgeably. "Been there quite recently before I hopped over the pond to sunny California. Anyway. Enough about me, what about you, Ms. Ella-the-aspiring-actress?"

"I'm a closet-writer. I've never shared any of my writing with anyone." The words spilled out of her mouth unconsciously.

"Really? Well, we'll have to change that, won't we? What do you write?"

"Poems and things…I don't have much time for it lately."

They wandered into a patch of grass whose green blades lay dully, pressed against the hard earth.

"Favourite poet?"

"John Keats. _Ode on Melancholy._" Ella answered. She hoped desperately that this didn't sound too sophomoric—what if he was some literature buff who'd gone to Princeton or some other Ivy League and majored in English lit??

"I did my thesis on Keats at Oxford!" Preston said enthusiastically, "But I have to say, one of my favourite poems of all time is ruined by far too much exposure. Shakespeare's Sonnet 18," he recited, all the while melting her with his penetrating gaze:

_  
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate."_

"Shakespeare _is_ overdone." Ella finally stated. The tenderness of his spoken words soothed her palpitating heart. When at last she opened her mouth again to speak, the words were not her own.

_  
"She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;  
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips  
Bidding adieu,"_

Through this exchange, her cold, tingling palm had found its way into his warm grasp—his lips, inches way, pressed against hers. She closed her eyes. The world around her paused in time, transfixed in motion and sound to this very second, this moment that was entirely her own. His lips were soft and gentle, seducing her with a hint of passion as his fingers traveled to the nape of her neck, caressing her cheek (_could he feel the pounds of make-up?_ she wondered briefly), until finally, when they broke apart, her eyes now open and drowning in the endless shimmering green of his, she wanted nothing more but to remain in his embrace.

It was, perhaps, an eternity before they finally parted, for here, concealed in this enchanted forest, beyond the prying eyes of any others, they were in a haven of their own. Only reality brought Ella back to her senses, and she broke away from their passionate kiss.

"I'm sorry, what time is it?" She asked breathlessly.

Preston checked his gold Rolex. "11:59. Why, what's wrong?"

"SHIT!" Ella's eyes grew wide and without a second glance behind her, she sprinted across the lawn. The delicate strap of her Christian Louboutin heel snapped under the pressure of her footsteps, but she could not afford to stop. Ella left behind this single stiletto—she may as well have worn idiotic glass slippers.

Gazing at her retreating back, Preston Carter picked up her proverbial glass slipper and held it desolately, whispering into the darkness,

"_His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,  
And be among her cloudy trophies hung."_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Apologies on the long wait for this chapter, I've been suffering from bouts of writer's block on churning out the events that take place here. Hopefully the next ones will go a lot smoother now that the hard part's out of the way! Comments and reviews always appreciated. ) 


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